


In Every Way

by ametis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Clothed Sex, Coming Untouched, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex, Season 1, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ametis/pseuds/ametis
Summary: Dr. Lecter invites Will to dinner and asks to borrow his imagination.





	1. Chapter 1

Will is too early at Dr. Lecter's house.

He sits in his car and watches the clock. One minute passes, then another. The wine bottle he brought is warming in his lap. Still, he waits another five minutes before walking up the stairs and ringing the bell. It would be rude to drive back home and call to decline the dinner invitation like he wants to do, and Will has recently come to understand that he doesn’t want to be rude to Dr. Lecter. 

Alana opens the door for him and welcomes him in. “Hi Will,” she says. “It's good to see you.”

Will tries to hide his surprise at seeing her here. “You too,” he says without missing a beat.

A stranger appears behind Alana and offers to take Will’s jacket. The exaggerated friendliness and pressed shirt make Will realize that this must be a helper for the dinner party.  
Helpers are good. Helpers means definitely more people than Will had expected which will make it easier to decline the offer.

Will settles more easily into his own skin and follows Alana further inside the house. 

In the dining room, the table is already set. The prospect of that many people in one room makes Will’s hands sweat. The wine bottle feels heavy in his grip. If he hadn't been sure before that declining Dr. Lecter's invitation is what he should do, this seals the deal.

“So you’re not staying?” Alana asks, looking at Will’s jacket that he didn’t give to the helper. Her smile is friendly and open. Will sees just a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Invitations to Hannibal’s dinners are highly sought after.” 

Will smiles back. “I’m sure they are.”

Alana is dressed accordingly. The dark tight dress she is wearing shimmers with every movement, fancier than anything Will has seen her in – which isn’t surprising. They are friendly, but they aren't friends. 

“Why aren’t you staying?” Alana asks lightly. 

Will opens his mouth and closes it again. He shrugs and is glad when Alana's phone starts buzzing loudly in her hand and she averts her gaze from him. 

“Oh right,” she says to herself. “I'll be right back. Hannibal’s in the kitchen.”

Will nods in agreement and watches her head out to the hall, grimacing that he can’t stop his eyes from watching her retreating back and the sway of her hips.

Above the fire place, as if to mock him for his wandering gaze, the dull glinting of a frame catches his attention. The painting itself is dark and graphic; a depiction of Leda and Zeus as the swan; Leda's pale legs spread, the swan between her thighs. 

The longer Will looks the more Leda looks like Alana. Until she transforms into her completely and starts moving. 

Will tears his eyes away and steps back.

The scent of cooking lures him further inside the house, past the wall of herbs and into the kitchen where everything is set up like a stage. On the sides, helpers, in the middle of it, an empty spot until Dr. Lecter emerges from the pantry with a wine bottle and takes his place. 

“Hello Will,” he says, a little surprised, but evidently pleased nonetheless. 

Will is too fucking early.

\- 

Later, on his drive back home, the shimmering darkness of Alana's dress flashes at the edges of his vision. Will isn't sure if it’s the sleepiness that makes him see it or something else. 

His mind is quiet. The kind of quietness that predicts a storm. He can feel it like hiccups, almost there but not quite yet. He waits patiently while he feeds the dogs, while he showers and eats. His dinner is a turkey sandwich that looks pathetic next to the meal he imagines at Dr. Lecter’s house. He sits in his kitchen and sees only half of what he is looking at. The other half is Dr. Lecter’s dining room, the table now filled with guests, Alana among them. 

He chews on stale bread and watches two worlds while he waits for the thoughts brewing in the warm crevices of his brain to show themselves.

It doesn't happen until he closes his eyes at night and sees Alana and Dr. Lecter again. They're shadows first and flesh later; Alana's legs spread for Dr. Lecter’s mouth, her voice a drawn-out moan, her skin porcelain white and starting to crack.

The next second, they are dressed and sitting in Dr. Lecter's dining room, turning to look at Will with knowing gazes.

Will wakes up in the early hours of the morning, grasping at the sheets and uncomfortably aroused. His heart is pounding.

Fuck.

He sits up and the entire room tilts and dims. Dizziness hits him like a punch to the gut — which is good, really. At least like this, the arousal vanishes all at once. In its stead bitterness rises in his throat. 

Will presses his lips together and waits. When the spinning stops, he goes for a glass of water. This time, there’s no taste of blood in his mouth that he has to wash out, but musk and sweet heat. He isn't sure which is worse when the latter is about people he knows personally and respects.

He doesn't want the thoughts, so they come quicker and stay longer. They are hushed but insistent, perverse all the while — _is that what they'd look like together is that what would get them off would Alana return the favor_ —

His belly warms as the new images flood his senses. 

“Stop,” he tells himself and puts the glass down. He splashes his face with water and steps out into the cold greyness of dawn. It works enough to disperse the images, but not enough to let him sleep again when he tries later. 

For the best maybe, if those are the nightmares he has to deal with now.

-

He sees Dr. Lecter first. 

Alana is easier to hide from in the dark halls of the academy. But Dr. Lecter sits opposite him three days later, watching him as if he can somehow tell how much time Will spent thinking about that dream over the weekend, how much he fought it, and how little that helped.

“You seem distracted,” Dr. Lecter says predictably.

Will smiles. “There is —” he starts saying, then stops himself. He wonders if Dr. Lecter would be scandalized by the dream, then dismisses that thought. Entertained or intrigued is more like it. The dream doesn't say anything about him personally but all the more about Will. Dr. Lecter would just want to dig his fingers in and drag every last detail about it from Will, look inside his head with a magnifying glass. 

In his dream, Will was Alana and Dr. Lecter and something else entirely. Something faceless. Something that scares him. 

What would Dr. Lecter find in that? 

Will clears his throat and shakes his head. Whatever it is, he isn't ready for it. “Not more than usual,” he says. “How was the dinner?”

“Entertaining,” Dr. Lecter says. “I missed you at my table.”

Will's face twitches as he tries to imagine what that evening would've looked like if he had stayed. He can’t come up with anything other than forced smiles and averted eyes. “Next time, warn me when there are more than three people invited.”

Dr. Lecter smiles. He tilts his head to one side as if a thought strikes him. “Next time, let me cook just for you.”

Will's heart jumps in his chest. He blinks once, then again. This might be a test. Dr. Lecter is smooth when it comes to his curiosity about Will, but it’s still showing here and there. 

A too long look, emotions not hidden fast enough, too personal questions. 

Adrenalin and defiantness make Will look up from Dr. Lecter's tie and into dark eyes. It’s not like he is too broken to socialize. It’s easier to keep to himself, that’s all. 

He fights his natural reaction to decline and nods instead. 

Dr. Lecter smiles, his teeth showing for a split of a second. 

-

Two days later Will finds himself in his car, parked in front of Dr. Lecter’s house again. He is too agitated to consider the late hour, or the fact that he hasn't called to warn Dr. Lecter. He rings the bell, then barges inside, hands dirty and heart pounding. 

Alana’s words are still ringing in his ears, the warmth of her kiss is gone, though, as if it hadn't happened at all. All that remains is the heady feeling of danger, and the slow unraveling of his mind. 

He feels crazy.

Dr. Lecter doesn't look upset — of course he doesn't. It was all in Will's head. Alana didn’t reject him because she is with Dr. Lecter, but because Will is unstable. Because Will didn't need to tell her that there was no animal in the chimney. She already knew.

There is a noise in Will's head now too that almost drowns out their conversation. It's similar to the one he heard in his chimney. If Dr. Lecter sees the fear in Will's eyes, he doesn't comment on it other than to reassure him that fear was the reason behind his actions.

A clutch for balance.

Will isn't so sure about that. And he wants to be. He wants it to be just misplaced jealousy, or loneliness. He’s an old hand at that. He can understand and take care of that. But this — this makes him feel like a stranger in his own skin. 

They stand at the island in Dr. Lecter’s kitchen and eat. 

Dr. Lecter looks distracted which is a first. It makes the hair on the back of Will's neck stand on end. Did he say too much?

“I hesitate telling you this as it borders on a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality,” Dr. Lecter says. “A patient told me today he suspects a friend of his may be involved with the murder at the symphony.”

Will takes a deep breath, relived of the change of topic and horrified by it. He presses his hands to his face and sighs. “What did he say about his friend?”

-

They have to postpone their dinner after Will lets Tobias Budge get away. 

On his way to Dr. Lecter’s office, Will is sure there won't be one even though Dr. Lecter was the one to call Jack. Still, Will can see each little detail of Dr. Lecter’s lifeless body; cold and empty eyes staring at nothing, his blood pooling under him, the once perfect suit ruined. He is thankful for the ringing in his ears that distracts him a little. 

When he is proven wrong, and a battered but alive Dr. Lecter smiles up at him, the relief Will feels leaves him tongue-tied for a moment. His mouth twitches into something that resembles a smile. He is tempted to touch the wounds he sees on Dr. Lecter’s face but manages to keep his hands to himself. 

Later that week, there is only a yellowish bruise left on Dr. Lecter’s skin. The limp from before is gone, too. 

“How are you feeling?” Will asks anyway. 

“Much better,” Dr. Lecter says. “Always surprising what a change from the daily routine can do to our bodies and minds.”

They are sitting at the table in Dr. Lecter’s dining room. Between them, a centerpiece of thorns and a single rose, of bisected pomegranates and their seeds spilling. It looks like a bloody offering to whatever Gods Dr. Lecter prays to. A wave of shame washes over Will — no offering for this meal from him, none other than his hunger and a bottle of wine. It only lasts for as long as it takes the wine to kick in. It might be rude, the way Will drinks it up, but he is certain his week is reason enough for it.

A man tried to kill him and Dr. Lecter, one of the few people Will doesn’t mind the company of. He dreams about his colleagues. And on top of that, he is sure he is going crazy. Either that, or there is something physically wrong with him. 

Too much wine is the least of his problems. 

Dr. Lecter seems to feel similar about recent events, or at least about the wine. He refills his own glass almost as often as Will’s. Although there is an air of mirth about him. Will wonders what that is about.

“Good company,” Dr. Lecter says without missing a beat. 

Will keeps eating.

“I’ve been composing,” Dr. Lecter continues. “A piece I keep hearing whenever I close my eyes.”

“We have that in common,” Will says darkly, then quickly adds: “Will you show me?” He enjoyed the entire dinner with nothing to occupy his mind but good food and wine and their conversation about everything and nothing. He doesn't want to spoil it.

The fork in Dr. Lecter's hand stops midway to his mouth. He smiles. “Of course,” he says. “After dinner.”

Will holds onto the feeling of accomplishment. Then out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of the painting above the fire place. It’s been at the edge of his consciousness all day long. He was scared he’d be obvious about it. Now he wants to be. The wine dulls his inhibitions. His curiosity peaks. He wants to tell Dr. Lecter about the dream and see what will happen, see either curiosity or disgust.

The moment he opens his mouth a deafening noise of wings flattering stops him from speaking. He turns to look at the painting and finds the swan moving, tall and blinding. Alana’s legs spread a little more.

The fork he is holding clatters onto his plate.

“Will?” 

Dr. Lecter’s voice drowns out the noise. It stops as suddenly as it started.

“S-sorry,” Will says. 

“Another headache?” The concern in Dr. Lecter's voice makes Will shakes his head and smile, not wanting to ruin the evening. 

“Too much of the good wine,” he says. He realizes he is telling the truth when he stands to help clear the dishes. His head swims a little. 

“Thank you, Will,” Dr. Lecter says, “but I must insist you let me do this.” He picks up both his and Will’s plates. “Please make yourself at home. I’ll be just a moment.”

Will watches Dr. Lecter disappear behind the wall of herbs. The sound of cutlery and plates being put away follows. 

He stands and walks to the fire place. The painting above it greets him with another high-pitched sound, a reminder why Will shouldn't be here, a reminder of his vanishing sanity. 

He is glad when Dr. Lecter suggests they move to the study. 

Another fire, more glasses that need to be filled. Dr. Lecter pours them whiskey this time, then sits down at the piano in the corner of the room.

The melody starts out lightly, like a quiet morning. It tugs on the corners of Will's mouth. His eyes close. Behind them he sees the fields around his house at dawn, the stream he fishes in. The light is pale at first, but as Dr. Lecter keeps playing, the melody deepens, and the light changes, becomes a golden morning.

Will moves closer. “Feels like a new beginning.”

“Precisely,” Dr. Lecter says. He is smiling up at Will after he stops playing.

“Wish I could trade this with the dark notes my mind produces,” Will says. 

Dr. Lecter looks concerned and says something, but Will doesn't catch it. His attention zeroes in on a painting he sees behind Dr. Lecter, between a book shelf and the window. The fire light doesn’t quite reach it but it’s enough to see the spread of thighs, the dark thatch of pubic hair. It would have been a lot even sober. Drunk, it makes Will’s entire body flush. 

There is an instinctual pull beneath his ribs despite the heat on his cheeks. He moves to the desk and leans against its edge, eyes still on the painting.

“L'Origine du monde,” Dr. Lecter says coming to stand beside him. “Gustave Courbet.” 

Will tears his gaze away. “Jesus, sorry.”

Dr. Lecter smiles. In the flickering light of the fire his features are soft and obscured, a different person than the one in his office, or even in his dining room. “Quite a scandalous choice, I’ll admit,” he says. 

Will’s gaze wanders between the painting and Dr. Lecter. “You are not what I expected,” he says eventually. 

“In what way?”

The night of Silvestri's arrest comes to mind, Dr. Lecter’s hands quick, the ambulance a light in the darkness. The bruises on Dr. Lecter’s skin and Tobias Budge's limp body follow closely. “In every way,” Will says. “In a good way,” he adds to be clear. He’d hate for Dr. Lecter to misunderstand him here when he understands him in every other way.

The smile on Dr. Lecter’s face is sharp. He watches Will for a moment before turning his attention to the painting.

“What do you see?”

It's not the delicate steering towards more appropriate topics that Will expected. He would dismiss the question if it weren't for the profound curiosity in Dr. Lecter's voice.  
_There it is_ , he thinks, _hidden too late_. Or maybe revealed on purpose. Either way, it leaves him feeling triumphant and confused about it at the same time. He frowns at the solutions his brain comes up with for Dr. Lecter's behavior and his own reaction to it. They all sound wrong. 

Then Dr. Lecter leans against the desk as well, close to him, their thighs almost touching, and Will can't dismiss his instincts any longer. He recalls Alana's response to his advances to stop himself from speaking, recalls the pity he could almost taste in her kiss.

It doesn’t work.

“Are you interested in my empathy disorder or something else, doctor?” he says finally. His voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. The boldness in his voice surprises him. He doesn't know where it’s coming from. He sure doesn’t feel it; his hands are shaky, perhaps as shaky as his state of mind. 

“I am interested in all kinds of things.”

Will watches the amber liquid in his glass, swirls it around. “Not sure that is the correct answer to give one of your patients.” 

Dr. Lecter smiles at him. “We are having conversations,” he says and turns his gaze to the painting. “What do you see?”

So they are doing this. What a strange evening. Will wonders if it's the alcohol that makes it difficult to follow, his own inhibitions, or maybe the feeling that he isn't fitting in his own skin. He figures it's better than seeing Hobbs everywhere he looks. With one long gulp, he empties his glass and puts it on the desk. 

“I _feel_ ,” he says, dragging his eyes back to the painting. Heat and wet tightness. He resists the urge to lick his lips. “But it's just a painting, Dr. Lecter,” he adds, chickening out. A flare of disappointment makes him realize that he enjoys this, whatever it is. He is on the wrong side of tipsy to think too long about it.

“All you see is shaped by your own experiences then?”

Will narrows his eyes at him.

“I apologize,” Dr. Lecter says. “The wine.” He holds up his glass half full of whiskey. “The alcohol.” 

Will shakes his head. His gaze wanders back to the painting, the delicate spread of thighs, natural and relaxed. He can see his own saliva and come just at the center of it. “I used to be good at it.” He realizes how that sounds and clears his throat. “Good at saying the right things and getting what I wanted. At one point.”

It was all he could think of doing with his — gift. The minds of horny college kids. 

He is glad when Dr. Lecter doesn't comment on it. “And what would I like?” Dr. Lecter says instead which is worse.

“I can safely say that I don’t know.” Will tries seeing past the suit. “You either don’t care yourself, or you are hiding.” He stares for so long at Dr. Lecter that he'd see the outline of his body if he closed his eyes. A man made of darkness.

“Fascinating,” Dr. Lecter says.

Will's glass is miraculously full again and in his hand. He looks down at it with an arched eyebrow. “Starting to think you want me drunk,” he says. “Am I to be offended by that or flattered?” He steps away from Dr. Lecter and sits in the desk chair. Borrowed frankness from somewhere hidden lets him look. His eyes travel the length of Dr. Lecter's body, still close enough to touch.

“I believe you can hold your liquor,” Dr. Lecter says. “Did I misjudge?”

“No,” Will says and whatever his voice sounds like, it makes Dr. Lecter's expression darken a little. He seems to like it.

Will places one hand on Dr. Lecter's knee without thinking what it might suggest. He freezes when the possibilities come to mind. The moment is ripe, almost overflowing with tension. “You like nice things,” Will says finally. “Fine things.” He moves his fingers to feel the fabric, then takes his hand away. “But you're not afraid of getting your hands dirty.” Will sees them drenched in the blood of Silvestri's donor, sees the muscles in Dr. Lecter’s forearms stand out as he cooks. 

_Strong_ , his mind whispers.

Dr. Lecter hums in agreement. 

“You're good with your hands,” Will says, then averts his gaze. “Good with your mouth too, I think,” he adds, because it makes sense. Will can see it clearly the longer he thinks about it. The fine manners follow Dr. Lecter to his bedroom. He must be a considerate lover.

There is silence for a while in which he wonders how he got here, then Dr. Lecter clears his throat. 

“You want to shield your partners from the dark thoughts at the center of your brain,” he says. Quid pro quo, apparently. “It’s jarring to you not to be able to share something as intimate as your thoughts with them.”

Will chuckles bitterly and drinks.

“Physical intimacy is easier to you than emotional intimacy, but it isn't satisfying anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.” 

Dr. Lecter’s gaze is heavy on Will, like a physical touch. He shudders and nods.

“Despite the violence in your life you want to remain gentle,” Dr. Lecter continues. “You worry that it'll follow you in the most intimate moments of your life like it sometimes follows you into sleep.” 

“Often,” Will says after a while. He feels naked and seen, glad in a twisted way that Dr. Lecter can see it all so clearly. Another moment of shared silence passes. Dr. Lecter's hands are clasped together in his lap. They look strong and capable. His attention is on Will and Will feels himself responding to it. “I am not worried about violence right now,” he says. 

“What are you worried about?”

“The way you are looking at me.”

There is no shame or hesitance. Dr. Lecter keeps looking. A smile stretches his lips. “Do I owe you an apology, Will?”

A flare of heat in Will's belly makes him shake his head. He watches the expression on Dr. Lecter's face. Curiosity isn't a foreign concept to him either. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he concludes.

Dr. Lecter nods. “I am mesmerized by your abilities,” he admits. 

Will shakes his head and stands, walks behind the chair. The space between them feels dangerous. “That doesn't make any sense to me.”

“I am wondering how far your imagination goes,” Dr. Lecter gestures at the painting, “when it comes to your pleasure.”

Will looks at the painting over his shoulder then back at Dr. Lecter, who is saying something. All Will hears is Alana's voice though—

 _I wouldn’t be able to stop analyzing_. 

“I'd like to know what's real, Dr. Lecter,” Will says, a little breathless. “And what you want from me.”

Dr. Lecter holds out his hand, and when Will takes it despite everything that’s telling him he shouldn’t, Dr. Lecter pulls him close between his legs. For a second, Will thinks he’s going to get a kiss. He panics even in the short time it takes Dr. Lecter to turn him in his arms. 

“I want you to use your imagination and let your body do the rest.” 

“Your professional curiosity is showing,” Will says. 

Dr. Lecter presses his nose to Will’s neck. “I’d say there is nothing professional about this,” he murmurs. “I am curious about you, yes. And fascinated by all the parts that make you who you are.” 

Will doesn’t know how to respond to that. His body doesn’t mind that he’s undecided. He lifts his head and makes room for Dr. Lecter’s mouth. He was right about this, at least. Dr. Lecter’s so good with his mouth, it makes his knees weak. “And you'd like to see that?” Will asks, his voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Very much.” 

All breath leaves him at once. He presses back against the solid warmth of Dr. Lecter's body and breathes. 

Hands come up to his hips and make him aware of the heavy heat in his belly, the pleasurable tension between his thighs. 

“You said you feel,” Dr. Lecter whispers against his ear. “What do you feel, Will?”

“Heat.” On his fingers, against his mouth. The sounds of it, wet and instinctive. His body reacts to the images his mind conjures. After a while, his half-hard dick tents his pants and makes him look obscene.

“That’s what I thought,” Dr. Lecter says. There is no scorn in his voice, just awe that makes Will harder. 

God, he should stop.

Dr. Lecter seems to sense his doubts; he reaches for Will's hands, takes both in his own and holds them up to Will's chest in a half embrace. The touch is warm and steady. It makes Will slump back against him, holding on tightly.

“You wouldn't mind if-if I'd be rough with you,” Will says. It pains him to say it, because it’s the thing he tried to hide from, the thing he didn't want to see in Dr. Lecter. A considerate and accommodating lover, agreeing to the darkness in Will’s head. Pain is a safe bet. 

“What do you see?”

In his mind, Will sees Dr. Lecter's study only darker; reality slightly altered.

“You.”

“What am I doing?”

Will shivers in his clothes and watches as Dr. Lecter pulls at his own pants in quick rough tugs that speak of impatience Will hadn’t thought him possible of. He bares his ass, then reaches between his own thighs, rubbing against his wet hole. Getting ready for it, getting ready for Will.

“You’d be wet,” Will whispers. Like a cunt.

Dr. Lecter hums.

He'd smell nice too. The thoughts come like they have been waiting. Musk and the faint cologne Will can smell now, smooth skin.

“I would be if you wanted me to,” Dr. Lecter says. “I wouldn't need to be.”

A high moan leaves Will's mouth. The images behind his eyelids change; Dr. Lecter is still bent over his desk, but there is the sound of him spitting in his own hand, loud like a gunshot in the silence. That's all he'll give himself before taking Will.

Will laces their fingers together. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“I like it,” Dr. Lecter says. “I'd take anything from you.”

“That is-" 

_Dangerous_ , Will’s mind whispers, but his body glows from the trust he hears in Dr. Lecter’s voice. As if the secrets he spilled in Dr. Lecter’s office and the dark thoughts lurking inside his head are nothing to worry about.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Dr. Lecter asks and for a moment Will thinks the roller-coaster of emotions shows on his face and Dr. Lecter wants to stop. 

A hand on his belt makes him realize that Dr. Lecter means his pants, where his erection is visible and tenting the material.

He expects skin on skin contact and tries to hold the _no_ on his tongue in.

Dr. Lecter merely opens and spreads his pants, then grabs Will's hand again.

“Tell me,” Dr. Lecter says. “How would you fuck me?”

“Ooh,” Will gasps softly. He feels exposed and stripped of all barriers he likes to hide behind. His mind rakes over the possibilities. “Slowly,” he admits, so Dr. Lecter would feel as Will does now. He sees his cock sliding inside Dr. Lecter's body and pulling out slowly. Making him wait. Not touching him anywhere except that part of him.

“You can do it harder, Will,” Dr. Lecter says, his voice deep and low, only for Will to hear. “I won't break.”

“God.” Will's hips jerk forward. He feels a responding hardness when Dr. Lecter pulls him back. He repeats the movement, gasping when Dr. Lecter’s hands tighten around his fingers, his breath audible, his legs opening a little more.

Before Will's eyes, Dr. Lecter's back expands with deep breaths. He is still dressed above his waist, but his pants are down to his ankles. Ungraceful. Will's hands leave bruises on his hips that neither of them cares about. He fucks harder and faster. Their breath comes out in gasps.

Dr. Lecter presses his mouth to Will's ear. “You can bite me,” he says and Will shakes in his arms. He wants to protest, to stop the taste of blood from spreading in his mouth. It's an impossible thing. Light explodes behind his closed eyes. He comes inside Dr. Lecter, his cock jerking.

“See,” Dr. Lecter whispers. "How good you can make it?”

His voice pulls Will back to the present moment where his boxers are sticky with come and his chest is rising and falling rapidly. He shakes a little. His hands are sweaty in Dr. Lecter's strong grip. The haze of orgasm fades all at once and leaves his cheeks burning. “Dr. Lecter...”

“Hannibal,” Dr. Lecter suggests. He is still hard against Will’s ass and pressing his face to Will's neck. After a moment of pause, he starts moving, quick strong pulses against Will's body that suggest he is close. 

Watching Will brought him to this, which is as ridiculous as the entire evening. 

Will is certain that he’s getting himself into something he isn't prepared for. The vehemence of it terrifying, so he pushes those thoughts away, and turns to grab Dr. Lecter’s wrists, giving him his thigh. “Come on,” he says. “Hannibal.”

Dr. Lecter's breath hitches as his mouth drops open and his hips jerk up one last time and hold. There is heat in his lap and the faint movement of his cock. 

Then silence again all around them, only disrupted by their breath. This time there is no sound in Will's mind to break it. He focuses in Dr. Lecter's labored breathing, counts the seconds it takes him to slowly let go of Dr. Lecter's wrists. 

Panic rises slowly at the back of his throat, although the ridiculousness of the situation stops him from embracing it like he usually does: they're two grown men who stare at each other and their ruined clothes. 

Will pulls his pants up a little. “I need a change of clothes.”

“As do I,” Dr. Lecter says. He makes no move to provide Will with fresh clothes, or to take care of his own. His eyes are dark as he watches Will. A lazy smile on his lips. He seems to be taking note of every last detail about Will after — after sex. 

So Will returns the favor and watches the softness around his eyes and jaw, the deep redness of his mouth, the overall air of relaxation around him.

Will envies him for it. His palms feel hot, branded where they’ve touched Dr. Lecter’s hands and wrists. A longing to feel that simple desire again blooms inside him even while he is still sensitive from his orgasm. A storm of thoughts waits for him. Any moment now.

He starts fidgeting with his belt. 

“Will,” Dr. Lecter says. “Might I suggest a different approach to this than averted eyes?” 

Will’s eyes snap back to him. “Please,” he groans between his teeth. 

Dr. Lecter nods, and starts loosening his tie and opening his shirt. He reveals more of his skin, one button at a time, until he stands bare-chested in the room. 

Will did not expect the chest hair. For a man as careful with his appearance as Dr. Lecter, clean shaven skin would have been less surprising. It's in line with the unexpected turns the evening took, though. Just another thing to elevate this to a surreal experience. Will likes it. 

Dr. Lecter holds out his hand again, the muscles shifting in his chest and arms. Strength that makes the back of Will's neck heat. 

“I think you’re in for a disappointment.” Will looks pointedly at his own crotch.

“Nonsense,” Dr. Lecter says. “I am sure we can think of something else to do in the meantime.” His arm is still stretched out, palm up, waiting. “Focus on me instead of the thoughts in your head.” It sounds a lot like Will's own desperate attempts with Alana, although there is no ground for Dr. Lecter to assume Will wouldn't want this in other circumstances. Will's desires are muddy, hiding from him, but when he finds them, they’re blinding. 

He takes the offered hand. 

“Will you show me what you saw?”

“Oh,” Will says breathlessly, his groin aches. “Later.” 

They shower and dry off, and Dr. Lecter brings glasses of water and a fruit plate upstairs and places it on the bed where Will is longing and staring at the ceiling wide-awake. It's almost midnight and with all that good food and wine and sex, sleep should come easy. 

It doesn't. 

Instead there is renewed excitement and a flutter in his chest for what might happen the rest of the night.

“Come back, Will,” Dr. Lecter says, and Will blinks the thoughts away and clings to the excitement.

There is something smooth against his lips. He opens his mouth before he knows fully what it could be, before he remembers the fruit plate. He bites and chews. The sweet juice of grapes explodes on his tongue.

Dr. Lecter watches him swallow.

“You’ve got a lot of mirrors in here.” 

Dr. Lecter looks at the room and smiles. “Placed strategically, yes.” 

Distractingly, Will would say. He keeps his eyes on Dr. Lecter instead of his mirror images, though, afraid of what he might see in it. He doesn't need any more altered realities tonight. This one is fine. This one is as safe as things can be with him.

Dr. Lecter feeds him more grapes and takes the empty glass of water from him with a gentle touch. His hands remain on Will after. He's good with them, leaving warmth everywhere he touches Will. 

“You like to watch yourself,” Will mumbles, eyes closed. 

“And my partners.”

Will pulls him down and kneels over him. “What do you see now?”

The twist on Dr. Lecter’s lips is filthy. His eyes move sideways and back to Will. The smile stretches. Then he takes Will's cock in his hand, barely moving at all, and when he does the little caresses drive Will crazy. His hips jerk back and forth over Dr. Lecter's hand as he starts to harden.

“You pictured it over my desk, didn't you?” 

Will nods but doesn't want to move. “This is good,” he says, kneeling over Dr. Lecter's naked body and lifting his chin for his clever mouth. A nip of sharp teeth makes him shudder.

“Indulge me,” Dr. Lecter says.

They move to a short desk in the corner of the room. The books and picture frames stay where they are. Dr. Lecter puts his hands flat on the shiny surface, his fingers nudging a pile of books from their perfectly aligned spot at the edge of the desk. Despite his demands earlier, his legs remain pressed together. A challenging glance over his shoulder shows Will that he wants to be told, maybe even forced. 

Heat flares up in Will's belly, a little sickening in its intensity. He taps the inside of one fine-boned ankle with his foot. “Spread.”

Dr. Lecter obeys. There is sweat forming along his hairline, the only thing that betrays his collected appearance.

“What are you thinking?” Will asks. He doesn't need to ask this anyone else. His guesses are good enough. Dr. Lecter is an amalgamation of things, none of them easy to read, which is as exciting as it is terrifying. 

Will feels like he is losing himself in him.

Another glance over his shoulder, toward Will's half-hard cock this time. One corner of his mouth lifts.

“You’re not what I expected,” Will repeats with emphasis.

“You on the other hand are exactly what I hoped you’d be.” Dr. Lecter turns a little more towards Will and for the first time this evening their lips touch, brief at first then harder because Will can't stop his hands from grabbing Dr. Lecter's hip and jaw and _holding_. Their tongues meet and linger, hot and wanting.

“You find it exciting that I wouldn't be hurt even if you lost control a little,” Dr. Lecter says. 

Words are rattling through Will's head, none fitting this strange evening. Too harsh and not truthful enough. He clings to Dr. Lecter instead and closes his eyes. “Do you have condoms?”

“Would you stop to look for condoms if you lost control, Will?”

Will groans and presses the slick head of his cock against soft flesh. He pushes but Dr. Lecter doesn't budge at first, only after Will exerts more strength. More than he’d ever used with past lovers, or anyone for that matter.

If emptying his gun into someone is to be excluded from this list.

It's not the pain he could cause that excites him, Dr. Lecter is right about that, it’s the strength. Strange for someone who had thought of men like this only fleetingly before. Maybe it's something specific about Dr. Lecter that nudges against new parts of his brain.

Whatever it is, he can't stop the awkward movement of his hips. “You-you prepared yourself,” he says. “Quickly.”

As if Dr. Lecter can read his mind, he spits in his own hand and does just that. Rough movements, quick but effective. Will is the one who reaches for the hand lotion he spots on the desk. He opens it and puts it in front of Dr. Lecter.

“Please,” Will says. “Use it.”

Dr. Lecter does. The sound of it obscene in the otherwise silent room. Too quickly he stops and puts his hands back on the desk.

“You wore more clothes,” Will says. “But this is better.” He presses closer to Dr. Lecter. “It's good.” It takes another moment before Will can make himself reach down and press his cock between Dr. Lecter's thighs and then up, rubbing against his hole. He holds there for a few more moments. His control breaks all at once when he sees Dr. Lecter's back expand and then freeze; holding his breath. Waiting in anticipation.

Will shoves inside with an ugly sound.

The heat and tightness almost make him come instantly. He has to stop before he's even started. “Just a sec,” he pants.

The first good thrust makes them both groan, and then there is no stopping. Will swears and pushes and pulls. An inelegant rough fuck that puts Dr. Lecter on his toes soon, lifting up for Will's cock and his bruising grip.

Welcoming it all.

Towards the end of it, they knock over a lamp, no doubt more valuable than any Will owns. A dull sound of the desk against the wall accompanies their movements. Will couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, and the fact that he doesn't seems to push Dr. Lecter over the edge. He isn't expecting it if the surprised little grunt is anything to go by.

Will pants through another wave of desire and forces his cock through clenching muscles. 

“You can bite me,” Dr. Lecter says over his shoulder.

Will yells and comes, his teeth finding soft flesh to sink into. His orgasm feels like a punch to the gut, quick and vicious. It leaves him panting. 

Tiredness comes over him at once this time. He pulls out and winces at how red Dr. Lecter's skin looks where he held him, how wet and bruised his hole is. He puts his fingers there and wants to apologize, but Dr. Lecter turns and catches his wrist.

In the bathroom, they clean up again. Will sways on his legs, the evening catching up with him at last. He feels the need to talk, but his head is empty.

“I don't know what to say.”

“Don't say anything at all then,” Dr. Lecter suggests. “Silence is its own form of communication.” He touches Will's face and kisses him gently. “Go ahead. I'll be just a moment.”

In Dr. Lecter’s bed, Will lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling, trying not to fall asleep. It's a lost cause. 

He wakes up to darkness and Dr. Lecter settling down next to him. 

“Would you like to surprise me like this someday?” Dr. Lecter asks.

“No.”

Dr. Lecter is kind enough to ignore his breathless voice.

-

The suggestion, like everything else regarding Dr. Lecter, buries itself inside the soft folds of Will's brain. He cannot stop thinking about it once the shock of what they've done vanishes. Like smoke, there and gone the next moment.

Will doesn't remember ever accepting anything this easily. Except death perhaps.

He thinks about it constantly: in the mornings when he's driving to work, during lectures, on the verge of sleep. It's been a week and he feels like a space inside his head has always been waiting for this; an assault of vivid images. Sometimes for a second or two, sometimes longer.

Usually, Will stops the thinking. 

Tonight he provokes it. 

It's been a week and tomorrow Will has a session with Dr. Lecter. He lies down on his bed, sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, boxers tight around his erection. He closes his eyes.

Dr. Lecter's office is freshly cleaned after his absence, no trace of the bodies or the blood. The scent of books and leather and polished wood fills Will’s lungs. And like a sculpture, Dr. Lecter sits in his usual chair, not a strand of hair out of place. He smiles up at Will as Will steps close to him and after a moment of consideration straddles his thighs.

Dr. Lecter’s hands come up to Will's hips, warm and sure. “Hello Wil.”

“Hello Dr. Lecter.”

“Hannibal.”

“Hannibal,” Will says and starts moving his hips, rising up on his knees and sinking down again, pressing their bodies together until they're both out of breath.

Clothes disappear, quick and easy.

For a moment, Will wavers. He can't decide what he wants. Then Dr. Lecter pulls him down for a hard kiss and bites at his throat after, and Will stumbles to his feet, holding his cock and pulling Dr. Lecter close by his hair. 

They don’t speak. 

Dr. Lecter merely smiles up at him, showing his teeth, then sucks him in.

Wet heat engulfs Will, quick and steady, from tip to root, and back again. Dr. Lecter doesn't stop once he has him between his lips. His pace is good, the flicker of his tongue against the slit cruel.

In his little house in Wolf Trap, Will writhes on his bed, his hands gripping the sheet under him.

“I dream about you and Alana,” he says.

Dr. Lecter hums, a question in his bright eyes. 

“She is spread before you and you-you—”

“What am I, Will?” Dr. Lecter says against Will's cock.

“Disguised,” Will pants. “The painting in your dining room. I keep seeing you and Alana in it.”

“Curious.” Dr. Lecter strokes him from root to tip. “I am neither a God, nor a swan.”

It doesn't take long after that. Dr. Lecter takes all of Will and chokes a little. 

“Careful,” Will says even though his belly tightens with pleasure.

Dr. Lecter answers with teeth, a slow drag around the tip that steals Will's breath away. He is trembling in his attempt to keep still in the face of danger. The pressure increases, and his hands shoot down to Dr. Lecter’s shoulders, then up to grab his own hair. Pleasure mixes with fear. He is so close, he can taste it. The moment Dr. Lecter replaces his teeth with his tongue, there is no holding back. 

Will comes with a hoarse cry, pushing inside Dr. Lecter’s mouth rudely.

When he opens his eyes in his own bed, it’s in time to see his cock jerk one last time in his boxers, untouched except for the phantom heat of Dr. Lecter's mouth.

His boxers are ruined, his t-shirt sticking to his skin with sweat. He stands on wobbly legs and goes for the bathroom, wondering what Dr. Lecter will say tomorrow, if he'll acknowledge any of it at all. 

He dismisses the thought instantly. Of course he will.

 _Tomorrow_ , Will thinks with a pounding heart, _tomorrow_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [moistdrippings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moistdrippings/profile).

Will’s phone buzzes in his pocket, pulling him from the dream-like state he was in and making his stiff back pop as he sits up quickly. They’ve been at the airport for three hours now. Jack is fuming quietly next to him, but even he can’t control the weather. Price, Zeller, and Beverly avoid looking directly at him, which is for the best. 

Will turns away from them when he takes his phone from his pocket and has to school his expression into indifference when he sees it’s a text from Hannibal.

Hannibal Hannibal Hannibal, he thinks, as if to make up for all the time he has chosen not to say his name. Now it's at home in his mouth, a second away from his thoughts. 

Somewhere between work preventing them from seeing each other after that night, and their hushed phone calls or quick texts, the thing between them became more than it should be after such a short amount of time. A secret. Intimacy like Will hasn't experienced before. It’s stupid, he knows, but he still can’t help the way his face warms when he looks at his phone. 

_I hope you have a pleasant flight. Please don’t hesitate calling when you’re back_.

Will had texted Hannibal to warn him he might not make it to their dinner date tonight. If everything goes to plan, Hannibal will cook for them again tonight, and they’ll hopefully talk a little more than last time. But the longer they sit in the same chairs and wait to board the plane, the more it looks like that is not going to work out.

 _Thank you_ , Will writes back. _I’ll call you_. 

-

When they finally arrive, the crime scene makes Will want to crawl into bed and never get out again. It reeks of hatred, coating his skin like sweat. It’s in his lungs, hot and cold at the same time. He wishes he could wash it off right now. He wishes he could hide from it. But outside, the storm is only getting louder, which means they’ll stay here overnight. Even if the place they’ll be at is a half-decent one there’ll still be traces of all the people before him there, all their tiredness and thoughts, loud in the night, left under the pillow for him to find. 

Will looks down at the dead woman in her grandmother’s kitchen, and feels shame and anger settle in his gut. 

“It's not the Ripper," he says when Jack and the others come back in. A headache throbs behind his eyes. The urge to plunge his head in deep cold water comes to him with force. It only brings imagined relief, for a second.

“Are you sure?” Jack says.

It doesn't even look like the Ripper, the viciousness and lust for pain is there, but the precision is missing. No excellence to be found in the mess of blood and flesh. “This is personal,” Will says to Jack. “You know it.” 

Jack sighs.

“This killer hasn't killed before and might never do it again,” Will says. “You'll find him at the periphery of Katherine Bale's social circle.” Her hollow eyes stare up at him, waiting. Deep blue before, now pale and unseeing. “An outsider trying to get in. He took something to be closer.”

“He took the heart,” Zeller reminds him. “Post-mortem.”

Will tilts his head to one side, images of the Ripper’s last killing before his eyes. This pales in comparison. “The heart,” he says to himself, “boring.” 

The room falls silent. Even the bickering between Price and Zeller stops for an uncomfortable moment.

Will doesn't acknowledge it, or the looks he feels on him. Instead he focuses on the curtains pulled closed opposite him. Big sun flowers, sprinkled with blood and ruined. He wonders if the sight of sunflowers or anything yellow will remind Mrs. Bale of death for the rest of her life, or if she’s lucky enough to forget. 

Jack sighs again. “You’re sure.”

It doesn't sound like a question and Jack isn't looking at him, but Will nods anyway. “Go home, Jack.” He takes off the nitrile gloves. “That's what I'm going to do.”

-

Against all odds, the flight back is only delayed, not cancelled. 

Will washes his face and hands in an airport bathroom, and in the quiet stall, he pulls his phone out and dials before he knows what he is doing. Hannibal picks up on the second ring.

“Hello, Will,” he says.

“Can we do lunch tomorrow?” Will asks. “Flight got delayed again.” As he says it, he realizes how unnecessary this call is, after having texted Hannibal this information already. Thankfully, Hannibal doesn't seem to mind.

“Of course,” he says instead, “I’m looking forward to it.” His voice is deep and quiet. Will pictures him in his softly lit office, slowly getting ready to leave the day behind, his hair and suit still impeccable, only the stubble on his sharp jaw evidence of the late hour. The way he only lets Will see him. 

Or perhaps Alana. 

Thoughts about Alana and her smile have been far from Will’s mind in the last week. It's like a switch has been turned off in his head when Hannibal touched him. It’s almost jarring now to bring her and Hannibal together again, something he couldn’t escape before and doesn’t want to think about now. 

He shakes his head and looks at his watch. “My hour’s almost up. Did you wait for me?” His tone turns flirtatious without him noticing before it’s too late. He doesn’t remember ever being this forward with any of the people he slept with before, but Hannibal feels different. He feels like the moment before falling, or the first time Will held a loaded gun in his hands, the first time he fired it at a moving target. 

“Yes,” Hannibal says without hesitation, a smile in his voice, too. “Does that please you?” 

“Yeah, that— yes.” Will smiles back. 

“We haven't agreed on a place yet,” Hannibal reminds him after a moment of shared silence. “May I pick something?”

“Sure.”

“I'll text you the address and see you tomorrow then.” 

Hannibal’s voice follows Will, warm and deep. It echoes in Will’s head as he steps out of the bathroom, as he boards the plane and finds his seat. 

_Would you like to surprise me like this sometime?_

Will’s heart skips a beat. 

It’d be easy to surprise Hannibal tonight. Hannibal isn’t expecting him. He might not even expect Will to take him up on his offer at all. Will has been inside his house, has seen the kitchen, study, bedroom. Knows the ways inside and out. He could wait, like Katherine Bale’s killer—

Will tries to stand before he remembers that he is in an airplane, fastened to the seat with a belt. 

“Will,” Beverly says across the aisle, quiet but sharp enough to make Will stop struggling with his seat belt. She searches his face for an answer, then looks at his shaking hands. One of her eyebrows raises slightly.

“I’m okay,” Will tells her, not sounding very convincing. He is sweating, too, which he wasn’t aware of until now. It must be visible on his skin, must make him look sicker than he feels. He still resists the urge to wipe his brow. 

Beverly gives him another long look, but thankfully doesn’t ask for any further explanation, and turns her attention from him when they take off.

The flight is one of the more turbulent ones, and two hours later, back at his car, Will is going through the same list of reasons to drive home and leave Hannibal alone, at least for tonight. The list of reasons to go to him is shorter, but the core of it is that Hannibal wouldn't have offered this if he didn't want it.

Will puts his face in his hands and takes a deep breath before starting the car. 

He sees Hannibal under him as he drives along dark streets, half-undressed and hurt. When he fights those images, his mind conjures up the cold body of Katherine Bale, which is worse.

It's okay, he tells himself, Hannibal wants it. 

At the next red light, he decides to drive out of his way, to Hannibal’s office. If Hannibal is still there, then — then —

The lights are still on in Hannibal’s office. Will turns off the engine and gets out of his car, his heart starting to pound.

In the waiting room, he presses his ear to the door. 

Nothing.

Hannibal probably just forgot to turn off the light. Forgot to lock the door, too.

One part of Will wants to believe that, turn away and go home, sleep this off. The other part is disappointed — a heavy cold weight in his gut. He breathes and breathes and takes two steps back for the one he takes forward. His hesitation leaves him rooted to the spot. 

And then he can’t do anything other than stare as the door opens a fraction, then a little more.

“Will?” Hannibal says, sounding surprised.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

In the semi-darkness of the waiting room, Hannibal looks otherworldly for a moment. He is still, watching Will. One corner of his mouth lifts slowly. 

“No, of course not,” he says, opening the door more to let Will in. Light spills from his office onto the floor and onto Will. Their eyes catch for a second, and Hannibal seems to understand all at once what Will is struggling with. He tilts his head a little, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “Is there something specific you came here for?”

Will resists to admit or reject anything until he feels the hot tang of Hannibal's anticipation. It leaves him breathless. Giving in feels like the easiest thing he's ever done. “Go-go to your desk,” he says. Then he pulls the door closed between them, leaving it only open enough to prevent creating any sound when he walks in later.

He needn't have worried about that, it turns out. A moment later, music fills Hannibal’s office and finds its way through the open door. Something classical, something familiar that Will doesn’t have the nerve to think about. 

He gives Hannibal less than a minute, and himself too. The urge to run and hide this deepest darkest part of him is there. Will steps inside before he can change his mind and ruin the mood. Distantly, he wonders if Alana ever got an offer like this, or if it really was all in his head like it so often is nowadays. Then he sees Hannibal, standing at his desk, back towards Will, and everything else falls away. 

It’s just the two of them, like it’s been in the last week. 

Will watches the tiredness in Hannibal’s shoulders, the slightly creased jacket. Hannibal must've had a longer day than Will had thought.

Will closes the door as quietly as he can and walks over to Hannibal until he’s standing close behind him, their body heat mingling. Will’s heartbeat is dull but fast, the space between them filled with warmth and the sound of violins. Will lets the moment stretch, watching Hannibal flip through a book and place it neatly back on his desk. When Hannibal tries to step aside and away, Will moves. Quick and decisive. He catches Hannibal around the waist and put his entire weight into it.

Hannibal's body tightens at once. His hands land flat on the desk as he loses his balance. When he turns enough to look at Will, he only relaxes slightly. “Will, I wasn't expecting you.” He sounds so genuinely surprised, Will feels like laughing. “Did something happen?” 

“No,” Will says. His body reacts to their closeness, to the adrenalin coursing through his veins. It feels like it’s been in him for hours now. He slumps against Hannibal. “It's okay. You don't have to do anything,” he whispers against Hannibal’s cheek, the stubble of a long day under his lips, just like he imagined. His mouth feels tender from it soon, but he still kisses his way from jaw to ear and back again. 

"Will?" Hannibal says as if they haven't done this before and Will isn't welcome, as if Hannibal needs to be forced. His struggle against Will’s hold turns him slightly. It’s enough for Will to catch his mouth with his own. The hot press of their lips and tongues makes Hannibal pliant under his hands. 

Will groans. He tries desperately to remember what it was they had agreed to, what he'd wanted to do to Hannibal, what game he had wanted to play, but all thoughts dissipate at the way Hannibal melts under him. When Will's hand wanders a little, he finds that Hannibal is hard, tenting his pants. 

“God,” Will pulls away to speak, feeling dizzy from their combined arousal. “Is this all it takes, Doctor Lecter?”

“It is with you,” Hannibal says quietly, and Will feels all of the pretense fall away. There is no room for games here. He wants to give Hannibal everything he's got. He wants to make it so good, it's the only thing Hannibal can think about when he sits at his desk.

Will rubs at him, too roughly judging by the quiet whimper that falls from Hannibal's lips. It makes him push harder for a moment, press his own erection against Hannibal’s warm body. He only stops to pull the zipper down and the fabric out of the way, to reveal hot damp skin.

They get lost a little in the push and pull of hips, in the hot wet slide of Hannibal's swollen cock against Will's palm. A sharp sound makes Will's hips stutter and stop. Is he too rough? 

“What?”

“Fuck me,” Hannibal repeats a little louder, presses the words against Will's cheek with hot puffs of air and soft lips, and Will has to put a little room between them to prevent an accident. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, like burning up from the simplest touches. And then he remembers it too well: Hannibal hot and tight around him, up on his toes for it. 

Are the bruises from last time still on his skin?

Will wants to see. “Yeah?” he gasps.

“Yes.” Hannibal turns and lets his pants slide to his knees, his naked ass comes to rest on the edge of his desk. He should look ridiculous with his shirt and vest still on, but he doesn't. He looks good, sweaty and flushed. His hard cock jerking under his shirt, deep red at the tip like his mouth. 

Will moves his hand deliberately, pulling the foreskin down to expose the sticky-wet head. 

“Your mouth is entrancing,” Hannibal says with a smirk. He must know that is all it takes to make Will see them together like that, to make Will think of letting Hannibal have it. “I hope you intend to eat me whole.”

The twinkle in Hannibal's eye is all Will needs to understand. When he brings two and two together, it's like a punch to the gut; not just the act itself but that Hannibal would ask for it. 

“Doctor Lecter,” he gasps as if in shock, but he goes to his knees so fast, it's a little painful. 

Doctor Lecter, as he presents himself to the world, has very little to do with this man in front of Will. The privilege of knowing both makes Will choke himself on Hannibal's cock. He has never felt the urge to do this to another man, apart from fleeting thoughts here and there, or secondhand passions from others.

Now, it feels crucial to have this.

The musk and heat of it have him shaking in his clothes soon, gagging for it. He touches himself and discovers that he has leaked through his jeans a little. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling away to look down at himself. 

Hannibal follows his gaze and shudders. “Show me,” he says, his cock jerking once as Will sits back to obey. 

Will doesn't mean to tease; it's the lack of sleep and adrenalin, or most probably Hannibal's heavy gaze on him - his fingers are slow and clumsy, but he manages to open his belt, pull down the zipper, part his jeans enough so Hannibal can see his underwear. 

“More,” Hannibal says. 

The damp fabric clings to the tip of Will's cock. When he pulls it away and down, one long string of pre-come stretches between his skin and the cotton.

“Are you always this wet, Will?” Hannibal asks. “Or is that for me?”

Will presses his hot face to Hannibal's thigh with a deep moan.

“Tonight is yours,” Hannibal continues. “Next time I want you laid out for me.”

“Yes," Will says, caught in a mix of present and future pleasure. “Turn around.” Will's mouth feels bruised already, but he can't stop right now, not before giving Hannibal what he asked for. He watches, dazed, as Hannibal stands and turns around, his pale thighs parting, the shirt quickly pulled up.

It's nothing new, seeing Hannibal naked, but the way he whimpers when Will parts his cheeks and tests the give of his body with his tongue, makes Will shake like he has never done this before. He hasn't heard make these kind of sounds the last time. Not even when he was ball-deep inside him and selfish from pleasure.

He feels insatiable after the first touch, pushing harder with his tongue until he breaches him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hannibal's thighs trembling after a while of deep licks and careful of teeth. When he pulls back, the tender skin is red and shiny from spit and stubble. His own chin is wet from his efforts.

“Does it hurt?” He puts one finger at Hannibal's hole and pushes slowly. 

“No,” Hannibal says, lowering himself to his elbows.

Will bites the fleshy part of one cheek when his finger slips inside. “And now?”

Hannibal pushes back against him. “Yes,” he says. “Keep going.”

Will does. Using his tongue and fingers in turns, then both at once until every touch makes Hannibal gasp and shudder.

“I should make you come like this,” Will says against heated skin. “Like you did to me.” The night in Hannibal's study that feels like a lifetime ago.

Hannibal tightens around him a little more. “You can do whatever you want.”

What Will wants is to have this again and again. He is surprised by his own determination but is too tired to fight it, wants it too much to fight it. 

He spits a couple times in his hand and spreads that and pre-come along his shaft. Right now, the only thing he wants is to feel Hannibal come on his cock. “Do you need more?” he asks. The head of his cock against Hannibal's hole, leaving no room for mistaking what he is about to do.

“No,” Hannibal says, his cheek to the desk when Will pushes in. He is hot and tight around Will, holding still and relaxing into it. Once Will is fully inside him, he opens his eyes and looks up at Will. “I'm proud of you, Will,” he pants. “How little convincing you need to take me like this.”

A shiver runs down Will's spine.

“Hannibal.”

“Do it,” Hannibal says. “Don't fight it.”

Will is too far gone to do anything other than what he's being told to do. He takes hold of Hannibal's hips, over old bruises, and starts to fuck. Long smooth thrusts that he knows Hannibal enjoys the most. Quicker ones to see Hannibal shake and pant. Sweat forms on their skin. It doesn't take long for Will's patience to waver. He presses an open-mouthed kiss in apology to Hannibal's neck, and pulls him further away from the desk so he can reach down and jerk him off, but Hannibal twists away from the touch. 

“I'll take care of it,” he says, voice rough. “You take what you want.”

Will isn’t sure why that makes him snap, but it does. He pushes with his entire body until Hannibal has no leverage at all and has to put both hands on the desk again to avoid a bloody nose. Will's teeth on his neck make him press his chest and cheek to the desk, too, his breath fogging up the smooth surface of it. 

This time Hannibal doesn't fight him when Will reaches for his cock. He tightens around Will with a groan and comes all over his hand instead, lifting up for the final thrusts, tensing and melting all at once under Will, and Will is helpless against the pull of orgasm.

The silence afterwards is deafening, too loud without the sound of skin slapping against skin. There is no music either. Will hadn't realized. 

He moves enough to let Hannibal breathe freely, and pulls out. Even with the haze of sex falling away, there is no regret in him, no doubt like last time. Still he is careful as he touches the tender skin on Hannibal's neck and his hips where he dug in his nails too hard. Old bruises stand out among fresh ones. The skin between Hannibal's thighs is wet and pink too. Will would be more concerned if it weren't for the quiet smugness radiating off Hannibal as he slowly steps away from his desk and turns to face Will.

“How was your trip?” Hannibal asks, and Will is so surprised he laughs.

“Awful,” he says truthfully, then feels weird about his smile as he remembers the details. He looks down at himself, his softening cock still wet. “Do you have-?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal has wet wipes, towels, soap. He lets Will use the bathroom first like the gentleman he is. Will is quick, his skin feeling too cold when he is alone. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror and is quick to finish. It feels wrong to be alone now.

He waits for Hannibal after and isn't surprised at all when Hannibal emerges from the bathroom no hair out of place. The only evidence of the late hour and their activities are the wrinkles in his suit and his bright eyes.

Will smiles at him.

“Would you like to come to my place?” Hannibal asks with a twinkle in his eye. The kiss he presses to Will's mouth is soft.

Will doesn't need any convincing. He put out food and water for the dogs. The drive back home feels an impossible task right now. Only nightmares await him in his own bed, he knows.

“Kiss me again,” he says. “And I'll think about it.”

Hannibal smiles and does as he is told.


	3. Chapter 3

Will is mostly aware of his own appearance when others are aware of it. He has long learned to ignore it, but it was a burden when he was younger, before he knew to use glasses and clothes and body language to his advantage. 

Before he knew he didn't have to look. 

People would stare at him and he'd stare back, getting lost in the little details their physical appearance revealed about them, getting lost in their desire for him.

Now Hannibal looks at him in the same way. Will is hot despite the fact that his jeans are around his ankles and his shirt is hanging off his arms. He feels twenty again, getting hard just from people looking at him. 

He feels _ridiculous_.

Hannibal doesn't seem to notice his predicament, or simply doesn't care. He pulls Will's jeans and shoes the rest of the way off, and the chair he’s sitting in closer to the dining table, looking impossibly good between Will’s spread legs — his shoulders broad in his impeccable suit, not a hair out of place. A smile stretches his lips as he watches Will struggle to decide what to do with his legs; either let them hang or prop his heels on the edge of the table. Neither position is comfortable.

Hannibal enjoys the play of muscle and shame in front of him too much to intervene immediately, that much is obvious, even if Will is distracted. 

After another moment of obvious indulgence, Hannibal touches Will's ankles gently. “Allow me,” he says and places one of Will's feet on his own wool-clad thigh, the other on his shoulder.

"Yes?"

Will nods, breathless. 

“Good.” Hannibal’s smile widens. He closes his eyes in pleasure and leans down, inhaling close to Will's cock. Then he gives Will that look again, mouth open, eyes hot and trailing over every inch of Will's body.

Will squirms under the attention.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

Hot breath washes over sensitive skin. It doesn't help with the squirming.

"Will?" Hannibal says patiently, fingers stroking Will's calves. 

Will wouldn't put it past Hannibal to stop right now and discuss. “I'm okay," he says quickly. "This just reminded me of something."

“Should I be offended or flattered?”

Will shakes his head. “It wasn't meant like that. Just – people used to watch me a lot when I was – when I was younger.” His voice breaks before he finishes speaking. He can't believe he just said that. He can't believe the dark spark it evoked in Hannibal's eyes.

How did they get here? How did _he_ get here? Naked and spread out on Hannibal's dining room table, the remains of their dinner pushed hastily aside.

The last two weeks are a blur in Will's mind, and in all that grey nothingness, Hannibal stands out. It's scary how easily he can bring out this side in Will. Or how much Will wants to give in. But what’s the damage and cost of giving in, other than reconsidering the image he has once created of himself?

Hannibal licks him from balls to the tip of his cock in a long hot line, as if in agreement. No cost but pleasure and joy. And pleasure and joy look so good and easy on Hannibal that it’s contagious. 

“Did anyone of them have you in this position?"

"No, not at all," Will says with a laugh. The thought of it makes him hotter, even if he knows it never could've happened when he was younger. Too scared, too nervous. He doesn't want to be any of those things now. He wants what Hannibal is giving. He pushes his hips up a little. “But I think they would've sucked my cock much sooner."

The moment the words are out of his mouth Hannibal pinches the soft skin on his thigh, and bites for good measure.

Will groans, then groans again when Hannibal takes him in his mouth in one long slide. All thoughts disappear from his head. He struggles up to his elbows to watch the way Hannibal's lips cling to the shaft of his cock, the way his cheeks hollow when he sucks and his eyes darken.

It reminds Will of all those people watching him. All the men. But Will wasn't swinging that way. 

Still doesn't. 

He almost laughs out loud. What a strange thought to have when his cock is inside Hannibal's mouth and Will would do anything to keep it there.

As if Hannibal can hear his thoughts and wants to tease, he pulls away a moment later and instead wraps confident fingers around the base of Will's cock. His other hand slides down to Will's ass, two fingers between his cheeks, rubbing at his hole without asking. He watches Will’s face closely. 

Will confuses himself by looking back. The dark heat and desire he finds in Hannibal's eyes makes him spread his legs a little more, offer the soft part of his belly to Hannibal. All the vulnerable parts of him are close to Hannibal’s sharp teeth. Will shivers and tries to hold onto the smooth surface of the table under him. He feels like he is about to fall.

“You seem distracted.”

Thoughts disappear, words dissolve on Will's tongue, and Hannibal's soft lips close around the head of his cock once more. Will wrenches his mouth open but not a sound comes out, not at first. Then he can't stop the mewling noises he makes with every flick of Hannibal's tongue.

It's such a small touch, but soon Will can feel it in his chest, in the tips of his fingers and his curled toes. 

“Please,” he gasps. 

Hannibal hums, evidently content with having Will's full attention again. There is a focus in his features that's almost obscene. No room at all for suggestions. Tonight, he doesn't want to be pushed. He wants to take.

Will realizes with a full-bodied shudder that he is looking forward to it. It's a surprise he finds the idea so exciting, given how much time he spends building walls and regaining control lost in the feelings and heads of others. But here he is, twisting and gasping on Hannibal's dining room table. His eyes when he manages to open them land on the painting above the fire place. Leda and Zeus. Alana and Hannibal. Hannibal and himself. 

He jerks as the images blur and mix, accompanied by the roaring fire. It’s suddenly too hot in the room, Hannibal's hands and mouth burning his skin. The dirty dishes from their dinner clatter and shake on polished wood. The house seems to breathe, as hard and loud as Will does.

Hannibal digs his nails into the soft flesh on Will's thighs, bobs his head faster, and Will is coming, grasping for his shoulder, the table, anything to keep him here, with Hannibal.

He manages it somewhat. 

What makes him jerk into the present moment is the finger moving faster inside him. Hannibal pulls it out just enough to add a little more lube and tease a second finger inside, then resumes the pace from before. It feels less like something new and exciting now, more like an intrusion. 

"What're you doing?" Will asks, too relaxed to care about how flippant the question is or how slurred his words are.

"Preparing you for what's to come," Hannibal says, standing slowly and encouraging Will to wrap his legs around him. His clothes are still neat, but his mouth — God his mouth. 

Heat flares up in Will's belly despite the fact that he's just come. There is something about being given more than he can take that makes his neck burn and his hips press down onto Hannibal's fingers involuntarily. It wouldn't be the first time Hannibal has talked him into something he hasn't done before. And he’s sure it won’t be the last. 

“That is of course if you wish to continue,” Hannibal says.

Will feels wrecked, but he nods.

The kiss that Hannibal presses to his mouth is rough and tastes too much of Will's own come, enough to make him want to turn out of it. 

Hannibal holds him in place for it.

“Fuck,” Will whispers against his mouth, not sure what he's gotten himself into.

“Are you sure, Will?” When Hannibal leans back his hair is at least sticking up a little where Will put his hands in it. There is sweat along his hair line and upper lip, too. He smells warm and heavy, and incredibly good. 

“I remember what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“You gave me permission to do anything, I'm giving it now.”

A satisfied glint in Hannibal's eyes catches Will's attention. He realizes too late that this was Hannibal's intention all along. A promise, a dirty little game. Their eyes meet and they both see at the exact moment that the other knows. 

There is a long pause, and then Will leans back and licks his lips. “Fuck me,” he says.

Hannibal is kind enough to acknowledge that that was what he's wanted to hear. His eyes close in pleasure. “Again.”

“Fuck me.”

Hannibal exhales shakily and unzips his pants. There's more lube and more kisses, and then the increasing pressure against Will's hole. 

It doesn't take long after that, for which Will is thankful. He still feels every inch going in. He is panting by the time Hannibal is completely inside him and there's still not enough air in his lungs.

Old habits make him turn his face away and close his eyes. Hannibal doesn't tolerate either of those things. He leans down over Will, puts both hands on Will's face and looks him in the eye.

Warm skin and scratchy hair drag over Will's chest and make him shiver. He remembers how tight and hot Hannibal had felt around him. The thump of the table against the wall that first time. All the bruises he left on his skin. Hannibal must be holding back for Will’s sake. 

“Fuck me,” Will says once more with emphasis.

The angle changes, the pace picks up. There's an unfamiliar sensation after every thrust that makes Will cry out each time. Heat and shivers spill over his skin. If he did this more often he could learn to love that feeling, to search it out deliberately. Now it makes his skin feel too tight, and like he isn't made for this kind of pleasure. His legs shake every time Hannibal's dick kisses that soft place inside him. He thinks he's going to break from it, but no, people do this. He did it to Hannibal. 

He takes a steadying breath and opens his eyes. 

Hannibal is still watching him, still close enough to kiss, his eyes hot and steady on Will’s. The darkness in them reminded Will of something at some point between that first breakfast they shared and the night he’d decided to answer to Hannibal's crazy suggestion.

Not now and not so crazy anymore. Will's cock thickens, but other than make Hannibal smile proudly, it's futile. He feels like he is about to vibrate out of his skin, he wouldn't dream of touching himself again tonight. 

His face must show some of the struggle between pleasure and pain. It makes Hannibal bare his teeth and pull out a moment later. The splatter of hot come on his skin is an entirely new sensation, too. Will watches the shine of it on his belly and cock too long without speaking or moving.

“Are you okay?” Hannibal asks. 

“Yes.” Will lets Hannibal help him up. “Just need a towel.”

“I'd suggest a shower.”

Will’s eyebrows raise. “Together?” He knows he is making it weird so he busies himself with collecting his clothes. He is confused, to say the least. Confused about things he sees and things made of shadow, at the edges of his vision. Confused about what his body wants and what Hannibal offers.

“If you prefer,” Hannibal says. “But I thought you might want a little privacy.”

Will nods. Yes, that's normal, that's more reasonable.

-

“A light dessert tonight,” Hannibal says later in the study, dressed in a robe similar to the one he borrowed Will earlier. He hands Will a beautifully decorated plate: thin slices of poached pears, berries, vanilla sauce. The plate looks too big for the portion. It reminds Will of restaurants he usually avoids.

“Right, we don’t want to overindulge,” Will says before he has the time to conceal the meaning of his words more carefully. He is slow, the soft ache in his body a big distraction.

 _Is he too much, too soon?_

“I don't agree,” Hannibal says and pulls him out of his thoughts. “We can both stomach a lot, I believe, but sometimes a little taste is enough for mind and body.” 

Nothing they've done counts as a little taste in Will's book. God, what else is there? 

Will forgoes fork and knife, and instead wipes a bit of vanilla sauce from the plate with his thumb. His eyes close for a moment when he tastes it. “If I stay tonight, will there be more tomorrow?” 

Hannibal’s smile is soft, yet hungry. “Of course.”

Whatever there is, Will wants to see it.


	4. Chapter 4

The thought comes to Will while he is still aching from their last night together. One would think that for a man who hadn't had regular sex before, he'd be satisfied for longer. But it feels like Hannibal has flipped a switch in his head, and the desire Will discovered after that is bright and demanding.

He wants everything Hannibal is willing to give him. 

In Hannibal’s softly lit office, he wonders idly where the line between desire and madness lies, if there is one at all for them. And then the thought comes to him with force — he can do anything he wants to Hannibal and Hannibal would allow it. He would welcome it.

Will berates himself for those thoughts a moment later, but the damage is done. The soft hidden parts of his mind are illuminated all at once. Curiosity makes him look. He looks until his hands start shaking and his breath comes out in gasps.

If Hannibal notices Will's distraction, he doesn't mention it. At the end of their session, he gives Will a biting kiss, though, and Will knows he didn't get away with it. He inhales against Hannibal's shoulder, struggling to find the right words to explain his fragile attention.

“It's okay, Will,” Hannibal says knowingly, and Will slumps against him. The thought comes again. This time Will lets it consume him. He looks and sees its physical outcome clearly before his eyes; bruises on smooth skin that last for days. 

“I can do anything I want to you.”

Hannibal is silent long enough for Will to wonder if he said it out loud. If he should repeat it. Then Hannibal shifts a little. His hand on Will's hip tightens.

“Yes.”

The soft light in Hannibal's office dims further before Will's eyes. He blinks a couple times, unsure what to do with the sudden power he feels rushing through his veins. His heartbeat is loud in his ears. A bead of sweat slides down his neck.

Running away seems like the easiest option.

Hannibal lets go of him reluctantly when Will steps away. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

-

They see each other twice more before either of them brings up the subject again. Will feels sick; infected by the thought that he could have so much more than he is taking. He's unable to escape the images of — of what exactly he isn't even sure. He allows flashes of a hot darkness and sharp danger, but nothing more. 

That is until Hannibal looks him straight in the eye during one session and tells him: “You can tie me up next time.” He says it casually, like it's no big deal at all, like Will's thoughts don't take the shape of his words instantly. 

A shaky laugh falls from Will's mouth. He stands and turns away from Hannibal to hide the emotional chaos he can feel distorting his features.

“Is this your way of telling me it isn't good for you? What we do.”

“No,” Hannibal says. “It's my way of telling you that you can tie me up if you want to.”

How easy that would be. How easy it would be to bruise Hannibal a little, make him feel it.

“Is that something you want?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, his gaze heavy on Will. “You wouldn’t hurt me much. If that's your concern at all.” 

Will flinches like he has been hit. “I won't hurt you,” he assures Hannibal, although he can see the exact opposite of it before his eyes: the struggle that would come from holding Hannibal down, the heat and darkness of it. A drop of blood smeared on smooth skin.

He turns around to face Hannibal, in the hope of finding a reason to dismiss this all. Instead he finds amusement on Hannibal’s face. 

“You won't hurt me even a little?” Hannibal asks. The smile on his face doesn't falter, even if just the suggestion of tying him up has Will breathless. For a moment, Will is sure he somehow made this whole thing up and Hannibal is talking about something else entirely. It wouldn’t be the first time. Or the worst thing he has come up with. 

“Not even if I ask for it?” Hannibal says, jerking Will back to the present moment and the very real heat in Hannibal's gaze. 

Will slowly walks back to his chair. If they're going to do this, at least he could try to do it properly. “What are you asking for? Other than,” he chews on the words before uttering them, “other than being tied up?”

“What are you offering?” Hannibal says.

Will sees himself that first night in Hannibal’s study, admitting that he was worried about the way Hannibal was looking at him. It’s still true. Hannibal’s attention makes him reckless. It makes him consider things he wouldn’t linger on otherwise. “I- I don’t know,” Will says finally. “So what’re you asking for?”

“Nothing more than what you've given me already.” Hannibal waits for Will to look up. “You may use a rope or handcuffs to put me where you want me.”

Will takes a shaky breath and looks away from Hannibal's calm expression. 

“We won’t speak of it again if it makes you uncomfortable.” 

Will nods. He doesn’t want to hear more, not right now. Not when Hannibal's ideas seem to align with his own perfectly. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Hannibal asks. “You smell excited, not nervous.” 

“You can smell excitement,” Will says, too bitter for someone discussing sex. 

Hannibal inclines his head in agreement. “You're not opposed to it,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting a little. 

“I am not.” Will sighs and closes his eyes. There’re half-formed thoughts in his head, too scary to be examined properly. Will pushes them aside. “Let’s not talk about it now.” 

-

Not talking about it doesn’t help. Will’s thoughts circle the subject tirelessly. A gnawing discomfort sits in his stomach, cold and heavy. It grows and lessens when he finds rope in the shed one day after work. He doesn’t remember buying it, but it’s unused and soft. It won’t hurt or chafe too much tied around naked skin.

After dinner that evening, he cuts it and looks at the two equally long parts spread on the kitchen table. He'd put it around Hannibal's wrists for sure. He can practically see the pale skin of Hannibal’s wrists standing out against the dark green rope. Maybe he’d tie his ankles too, depending on where they would do it. Make him spread his legs as far as he can and then tie them to the bed, make him unable to close them anymore—

A loud bark pulls him from his thoughts. Will looks down at Buster wagging his tail. The others are standing at the back door, too, waiting. Right. Will opens the door for them and fills up their water bowls. In the murky darkness, he watches them roam the backyard for a while. His thoughts, however, are circling the kitchen table, looking at the rope as if it’s a clue in an unsolved case.

He ignores it once he goes back inside and checks his phone instead. He starts typing without a conscious decision to do so. 

_Are you free tonight?_

The response comes almost immediately. _Yes._

Hannibal doesn't ask what for. Does he know?

Not that it would change Will's mind if he did — he is ready to leave in half an hour.

In the car, he takes out his phone again. A call would be appropriate. Hannibal would consider it polite. Will wouldn't even need to explain, having more than once called in the middle of the night or from crime scenes. 

Will puts his phone away and starts the engine.

-

Hannibal isn't at home when Will arrives, which is good and bad for his nerves. It’s easier to breathe, knowing he can still leave if he wants to, but his hands are shaking because he knows he won’t. He’ll wait for Hannibal. He’ll give him what he asked for. He’ll fucking enjoy it, too. 

In Hannibal's study, Will observes the shadows and lights in the corners like a killer going back to their crime scene. There're traces of that night left, emotions still hanging in the air, the sounds they made together still echoing off the walls.

It’s a beautiful song, familiar yet strange. 

Will sits down in Hannibal's chair and listens. His eyes close after a while. That song becomes dull, fast, pounding. He feels it in his chest. It makes the blood in his body rush and boil. He is—

The front door opens and closes with a bang, and Will jerks in his seat. There is sweat along his hairline. His heart is pounding. A daze lifts from him that he wasn't aware of just a moment ago. He is—

Right, he is at Hannibal's house. Waiting. 

Hannibal moves from one spot to the next; leaving the keys on the counter in the hallway and taking his coat off, washing his hands in the kitchen. He doesn't look for Will even though it's impossible for him to have missed Will's car parked on the street, or his jacket thrown lazily across the chair in the hallway. 

He is waiting for Will, too.

It’s easier then to walk silently to him and press their bodies together. Hannibal struggles only for a moment, his wrists tensing his Will's hands. It's all for show, though, and so Will plays along. 

“Shh,” he whispers against Hannibal’s ear, and pulls him away from the counter. He lets go of one wrist on their way upstairs, but grips the other hard enough to bruise. 

The bedroom is dark when they stumble in. It would be easier like this; something easy to deny and hide in the shadows of this room. Take Hannibal and leave him wet and bound. Claim not remembering. Claim innocence.

Will turns the light on and pushes Hannibal towards the bed, already pulling his shirt from his slacks.

“What’re you going to do?” Hannibal asks, eyeing the rope on the bed. He doesn't look like a man who is scared or intimidated. Even when he tries to be, his excitement is blatant. It’s infectious. It makes Will push again. This time he has to put his weight into it — Hannibal doesn't budge until he does, until Will digs his nails in and holds and pushes.

They land on the bed with a loud thump. Hannibal is on his hands and knees first, but loses his balance when Will pushes once more. 

“Whatever I want to,” Will pants against his neck. 

God, he could actually do anything. Anything. The realization makes him shake on top of Hannibal. All that heat inside him seems to build and build. All those hidden parts of him want out. His hips shiver up against Hannibal's ass, his mouth opens on Hannibal's neck, tasting him, breathing in his warm scent. He could stay here forever. The prospect of almost giving in but not actually doing anything is more thrilling than he had expected. 

But Hannibal asked for something else.

Will takes a deep breath. “I thought you'd struggle more, Dr. Lecter,” he says, mind made up.

Hannibal gets it. His body tenses under Will. He kick the air and brings his arms under his chest to push himself up. He isn't really trying. Otherwise, Will realizes, it'd be more difficult to overpower him. He is stronger than he looks. 

By the time Will manages to pull Hannibal’s arms back and tie his wrists together at the small of his back, they’re both panting. Hannibal stills for that part, and Will does his best at making sure the rope won't cut off circulation too much.

In the bedside table he finds lube. He takes it and stands over Hannibal, watching his shoulders rise and fall. God, the image they make like this; Will in worn clothes, hair wild and unshaved. Hannibal in his pressed shirt, surrounded by fine art and expensive taste.

An intruder and his victim. 

Instead of scaring him off like it should do, the thought makes Will reach for Hannibal. He unbuttons his slacks, pulling them down enough to expose the smooth skin of Hannibal’s ass, and spits in his hand to smear it between Hannibal's cheeks. It’s crude enough to earn him a shudder, which is good. Will himself is fully hard already. He undoes his pants one-handed. His other hand is still on Hannibal's ass, rubbing his spit against his hole. He adds lube once he has pushed his pants down enough.

“Please,” Hannibal whispers.

“Don't move, it's going to hurt if you do.”

One part of Will feels sick at the mere suggestion. Finally. But the rest of him enjoys this too much to stop or give the words too much thought. He has done that; thought about it day and night, picked it apart as if he was inspecting a crime scene. None of that had helped. This - this is something they both want. 

He pushes a finger in, then two, working slowly, massaging Hannibal's hole until it loosens under his touch. At the small of his back, Hannibal's hands twitch every time he presses in deep, turning red a little with the position he is in, his veins standing out. The skin on his cheeks looks creamy white in comparison. 

Will leans down and bites one cheek. He doesn't expect Hannibal to jerk quite so hard and push back into the bite with so much enthusiasm. It makes him hurry with the preparation. Soon, he is satisfied with it and straddles Hannibal's thighs, pressing the wet swollen head of his cock against Hannibal's hole. 

“Don't scream,” he says. 

Hannibal doesn't. But he makes a strangled noise when Will breaches him, then again when there's no room between them left anymore. His breath is loud. When Will looks up, though, there is no trace of pain or regret in his features. He looks mesmerized; mouth hanging open, a blush reddening his cheeks, his gaze fixed on the wall opposite them.

Will follows it and his hips jerk forward when he sees what Hannibal is staring at: in the mirror opposite them, he sees his own face go slack with arousal, his eyes darken. He tears his gaze away from that feral glint in his own eyes and looks at Hannibal’s reflection instead. God, they look obscene like this. Good and scandalous and—

Will only realizes that he has begun to fuck by the way Hannibal’s mouth shapes around a stuttered moan. Will looks down at the real thing, puts his hands and weight on Hannibal's shoulders, and starts to move in earnest. 

Hannibal bares his teeth at him, and that in turn spurs Will on until the slap of skin on skin is loud around them.

God, Will wants Hannibal's teeth on his body. 

He leans down, closer to that thrilling danger, and kisses Hannibal. Maybe he mouths his wish, maybe Hannibal just understands, because the next moment those sharp teeth close on his bottom lip. The pain makes him jerk on top of Hannibal, yell against his mouth, and lean into it. 

Under him, Hannibal makes that strangled sound again and tenses all over. He is coming for Will, his tied hands brushing against Will's stomach, and Will follows helplessly. 

For a moment the world is bright with pain and pleasure. Then exhaustion creeps into Will's limbs. If Hannibal's dazed expression is to go by, he feels the same. They let go slowly. Teeth and hands and arms. Will unties Hannibal's wrists and soothes the marks he finds there. 

“Are you ok?”

Hannibal nods and slowly sits up. His come is smeared on his thighs and the sheets. He looks at it with obvious displeasure. 

“I can change the sheets,” Will offers.

“Please do,” Hannibal tells him, “while I take care of the rest.” His slacks have not been spared either. Will can see some of his own come run down Hannibal's thigh when Hannibal stands.

Fuck.

Over his shoulder, Hannibal gives him a heated look. “Thank you, Will.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Will says stupidly. What else can he say?

“Join me when you're done here,” Hannibal tells him, then goes to the bathroom. The shower comes on a moment later, and Will flops back onto the bed. 

He had expected to feel differently, or at least find some kind of answer after doing this. There is nothing though, no questions, no answers, just silence.

And that, Will decides, is good enough.


End file.
